


Why, How, What.

by yourbucky221B



Series: Finding the right thing to say [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, M/M, Pining, Romance, Sadness, Sexual Tension, basically everything is still fucking sad and angsty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-27
Updated: 2014-04-27
Packaged: 2018-01-20 22:43:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1528376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yourbucky221B/pseuds/yourbucky221B
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mary wonders why John is different. John asks how he's supposed to balance everything. Sherlock knows what he wanted to say, but doesn't say it. </p><p>Sherlock and John try to mend things. But it isn't that easy. Running away is the only answer they seem to know.</p><p>The second part to Sometimes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Why, How, What.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Tyone](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tyone/gifts).
  * Translation into Русский available: [Why, How, What](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1890411) by [leeloque](https://archiveofourown.org/users/leeloque/pseuds/leeloque)



> There was quite a bit of demand for a sequel of some kind. Unfortunately you were probably hoping for a happy ending, but no can do. It's still angsty. But this is now part 2 of 3 of this story.
> 
> For Anna again, cause she's my little muse for angsty Johnlock/pininglock.
> 
> Also, this is an au that doesn't include HLV, just for story purposes. Also. Mary isn't pregnant in this au.

   Also I was listening to Dawid Podsiadło while writing the majority of this, so you can listen to either or both of these songs, [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iGvbbUk4Y5k) and [here.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gpLmDm9Pwms) Cause Anna got be completely invested in his music cause it is beautiful and I need to share it :)

* * *

 

 

   It had been three weeks since John went to 221B.

   Mary wonders a lot of things the three weeks that followed that visit.

   Why John picks at his food?

   Why does he either go to bed really early, or really late?

   Why does he leave for work hours before he has to go in?

   Why does he avoid her around the house?

   Why doesn’t he talk to her anymore?

   Not even a ‘how was your day?’ is passed between them now. Not even a ‘how are you?’. And ‘I love you’, goes down to ‘Love you’, or ‘You too’.

   John doesn’t respond when Mary talks to him at the table while they’re eating dinner. His mind is elsewhere. Mary can see that. She can see how distant he’s become. It had been happening for a while now; for months she’d seen it creeping up, how every now and then he’d drift away. She’d be talking about something that was on the television and he would be staring out of the window. But he’d snap back quick enough, a warm smile on his lips, just for her.

   It was different now. It had been different for exactly three weeks now. John didn’t snap out as quickly and wouldn’t offer her a reassuringly warm smile.

   He’d look lost, empty; his eyes searching for something he had no idea how to find.

   John hadn’t realised.

   He’d just fell into this state. He just wanted to think.

   He chuckled to himself at that; all those times Sherlock had groaned and whined that he just needed to think and here he was.

   He told himself it was because he felt guilty for going behind Mary’s back. But he knew that wasn’t true.

   Mary could barely have a proper conversation with him now.

   He didn’t kiss her anymore.

   Their life inside the bedroom was suffering just as much as their life outside.

   John Watson was a man floating in a life he didn’t know how to live.

   “John?” Mary whined from across the table, his head snapping to hers.

   “Hmm?” His eyes still didn’t meet hers; instead they drifted around her, focusing on anything but her pleading blue eyes.

   She huffed and grabbed his plate from in front of him, barely touched, “It doesn’t matter, love.”

   He nodded and became fascinated with the wood grain on the table, his fingers tracing the patterns visible there. An odd oval shape. A slanted almond. Sherlock’s eyes had always looked a little oddly shaped. Almost a little too small for his face. That was only if you looked hard enough though, even then it didn’t ruin his overall appeal. John closed his eyes tight and fisted his hands on the table _. Stop it. Stop torturing yourself. You did the right thing. You weren’t helping each other. He is fine without_ _you. You are fine without him._

   John recalls Sherlock’s eyes as he kissed him. The desperation there. How he clinged to that one moment. He wasn’t the only one, John had clinged to that moment too, knowing that it was the first and last time he would kiss Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock’s dejected, knowing eyes as he pulled away haunted him. The acceptance that he held in the line of his lips and the set of his eyes as John had stroked his cheek and turned to leave, they were burned into his eyes, his heart. He clenched his hand tighter. The one which had touched Sherlock’s soft cheek.

   “John!”

   John jerked his head up violently, searching for Mary. She poked her head out of the kitchen, hands covered in rubber gloves and soap.

   “Answer the door for me, will you?” She let a smile grace her face, as if trying to make up for her hard tone. John remembered the first time he’d seen her smile. She was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. All big blue eyes and blonde hair.

   He nodded and smiled back at her, watching her disappear behind the doorframe again. He shuffled out of his seat and stretched as he made his way to the door. _God, it was only half eight._

   I don’t think either of them knew who was more shocked. John for opening the door to find him standing there, or Sherlock to have trekked halfway across London to see him.

   “John,” He said with a sort of relief yet determination behind his words.

   He looked so much better than he last had, fresh faced and healthy, his scarf looked new but it was still his signature blue colour. His shirt fit much better, and John found himself having to tear his eyes away from how the buttons strained to contain Sherlock’s chest. His hair was perfectly styled, not a strand out of place. John’s hand itched to touch it, just once.

   “What are you doing here?” John finally asked, stunned.

   Sherlock looked down and swallowed before opening his mouth, “I- I was in the neighbourhood and decided to pay a visit.”

   John raised his brow.

   “A case.” Sherlock admitted, his shoulder’s slumping from his usual straight stance, “I had a case and wondered if you wanted to…join me.”

   The tone of Sherlock’s voice told John that this wasn’t a simple request of running out on a case, this was a _‘I needed to see you, you can tell me to go or you can come with me’._ It was full of implications. John had established this cut in their relationship, and now Sherlock was here, needle and thread in hand, asking John if he could try to mend it. It wouldn’t be the same but it would be similar, familiar and it would be good.

   “When I came to see you last…” John started, trailing off as he struggled to find the appropriate words.

   “I know. That was you…” Sherlock paused, trying to form his words, “You have your own life and you were giving me a proper goodbye. Closure, if you will.” Sherlock moved his hands in front of him, gesticulating, “But, I hate to admit - Mrs Hudson will support this point - things aren’t the same without you. I’m… well, I’m… lonely.”

   John just stared at him. How did he explain to Sherlock that he felt exactly the same, with his wife just a room away? How did he explain that he regretted most of what he’d said to him the last time they’d set eyes on each other? How did he explain that his life was utterly boring without him? How did he explain that if he could take this all back, their separation, this distance, he would? How did John Watson tell Sherlock Holmes he loved him without saying it?

   “I’ll grab my coat.”

   Sherlock’s eyes lit up and the most suppressed excited smile twitched at his lips. He nodded and rocked back on his heels slightly, hands clasped behind his back. He bit his lip and cleared his throat softly, his chest feeling fuzzy. Maybe it hadn’t been a goodbye.

   John turned with his heart beating rapidly in his chest, his face bursting with concealed joy and stepped towards the coat rack, his lips itching to break out into a grin. He felt like someone had pressed the on button, like everything was starting up again, it was alive and exciting and it was all Sherlock.

   Just as he hooked it off, Mary called from the kitchen, “Who is it, John?

   John froze and felt the energy drain from his face, he spun to look at Sherlock who was stood there, his face also unmoving. John slipped his coat on, deciding then and there just what he was going to do. He wanted this. Even if it was just one night. 

   He called out, “Just Greg! I’m going out for a bit!”

   John didn’t want to wait around for her reply; he ushered Sherlock away from the door and left the house as quickly as he could, almost racing down the path after Sherlock. He started laughing then, wildly. He couldn’t contain it. They weren’t even half way down the street when Sherlock stopped and took in his state, his lips twitching at one corner as he tried to prevent himself from laughing as well.

   “I just ran out of my own home like a fucking teenager.” John chuckled, gasping for breath as he leaned against a nearby wall. He miscalculated in his laughter induced hazed and almost fell to the floor, which caused Sherlock to chuckled softly, one hand coming up to cover his mouth.

   Sherlock’s chest constricted tightly as he watched John laugh so freely. It was like looking at a photograph of the past. When all they did was run through London, solving crimes and laughing about it. When times were simpler. When Sherlock Holmes hadn’t left John for two years. When John Watson wasn’t married.

   His laughter died off then, his face dropping with it, John noticed, he frowned at Sherlock as his laughter died out as well. Then he stood and brushed down his jacket, standing up to his full height. That made something twinge inside of Sherlock, watching John become that soldier going into battle. He remembered watching John do that before, but that time Sherlock had been watching from afar, unable to make his presence known.

   “So…” John said, looking down the street, “Where to?”

   He caught Sherlock off guard. He stood there staring at John, trying to form an answer, “I-I… I don’t have any ideas.” He said surprised. He always had ideas.

   John smiled and turned to head down the street, “Chinese?”

   Sherlock froze, “No.”

   John looked like someone had punched him in the gut.

   “I mean, not again. Not after…” Sherlock met John’s eyes and he realised that John understood. The last time they’d had Chinese had ended in pained confessions and goodbyes. “How about Thai?”

   John nodded, “Yeah, Thai sounds good.”

*   *   *   *

   They grabbed the Thai from the same place they had always gotten it from, just two streets away from Baker Street. Sherlock didn’t mention this, and John didn’t bring it up either. Despite the fact they were both thinking about it. Instead they just walked through the streets, bag of Thai in John’s hand, a relaxed silence between them as cars and cabs raced past them. The street lights cast a yellow glow on everything and Sherlock noticed how John’s hair looked blond again. He hadn’t seen it so blond in over three years. John had been a dark grey by the time he’d come back to London after…

   “We going to stand in the street and eat this, or are we going back to the flat?” John asked nonchalant, looking at Sherlock from the corner of his eye.

   Sherlock struggled, his eyes blinking and mouth moving but nothing coming out, “I-I didn’t want to assume… I mean…”

   John chuckled lightly, “It’s fine, Sherlock.” Then he stopped at the corner and turned to head down Dorset Street, “You coming?”

   Sherlock debated the offer. If they went back to Baker Street, back to 221B they would be stepping back in time. John in his armchair, Sherlock in his. Them sitting at the table eating Thai, discussing cases, making jokes no one else would find funny. Mrs Hudson coming up to tell them to keep it down. Them sinking into their chairs at the end of the night, sipping tea and passing casual conversation. Sherlock wondering what it would be like to kiss John and completely ignorant to the fact that John was wondering the same thing. There would be the lingering looks. John licking his lips innocently, but it would make Sherlock grit his teeth. There would be the knowledge of something more between them, but it would not be acted upon. It would be torturous. It would be wanting.

   It would be wonderful.

   Sherlock was nodding and following John before he even registered it properly. He would follow John blindly. Just as John would follow him.

    Mrs Hudson was ecstatic when they got back to the flat and John popped in to say hello. She threw her arms around him and held his face in her hands, smiling and gushing over the fact he was here. She started going on about how empty the place had felt without him, how Sherlock was lonely. John tried to keep the smile on his face at that, but it was hard, knowing that.  John hugged her back but told her they’d ordered takeaway. She didn’t need telling again, she kissed his cheek, saying how nice it was to have him back here and then let him go.

   John almost ran up the stairs to the flat he used to call home. But it was home. His little haven. It would always be his home. He entered the living room and his jaw almost came off in shock at what he found. Sherlock had never been one for tidying. Had never been one for making an effort at meals, or dinner times.  Yet the room was almost immaculate.

   It looked like someone had cleared everything out of here that was Sherlock’s. The piles of papers were gone. Case notes and files were nowhere to be seen on the desk they used as a table. There was no sort of equipment or odd bits hanging around. Even the fireplace was a little sparse. The skull being the only thing that still resided there.  John stepped in a little further and just stared at the room, his mouth hanging open as he took in the fact there had been an attempt to remove the yellow paint off the wall. Part of it scratched away but the rest was intact, as if Sherlock had decided it was too much work.

   “What happened?” John managed, spinning to look at the shelves near the kitchen door, only to find them devoid of any papers, misplaced books or mugs.  Then he caught sight of the completely clean kitchen and his eyes widened, “What the hell happened to the kitchen?”

   Sherlock furrowed his brow, “I cleaned?” He questioned.

   John turned to him with a whip of his head, “You? You cleaned? What possessed you to do that?”

   John looked like someone had just told him that the Queen did her own washing and Sherlock opened his mouth to speak only to close it again, then he said, “Mrs Hudson made a sweeping statement about the state of the flat again.”

   John raised his brow in disbelief, “Mrs Hudson badgers you all the time about the state of the flat. What changed this time?”

   He shrugged and turned back to the desk.

   Sherlock remembered exactly what had changed. He remembered exactly what Mrs Hudson had said to him that fuelled the cleaning.

 

_Sherlock! No wonder John doesn’t come round so often, if the place looks like this. It’s a tip Sherlock. You could at least tidy a little bit. I’d love to see John and Mary’s place. I bet it’s lovely._

   Sherlock had started cleaning within an hour of her visit upstairs. He’d gathered up all of the case files and papers and organised them before putting them in boxes. They were now being stored in John’s old room. Then he’d gathered all the odd figures and bits he’d collected over the years and put them in another box. His chemistry equipment had found a place in one of the bottom cupboards in the kitchen. He’d hovered and dusted and even attempted to get the yellow smiley face off of the wall, but had given up pretty quickly. He’d used antibacterial wipes and sprays on every surface of the kitchen and washed all of the mugs and dishes that had been left around.  He didn’t even think about it. He just wanted the flat to be acceptable for John.

   “Are those…” John trailed off, his eyes on the coffee table, “Are those flowers?”

   Sherlock followed his gaze and then looked back to John, confused, “I thought that’s what people did? To make a room look nice?”

   John let out a gasping laugh, “Yes, normal, boring people. Not you.”

   Sherlock didn’t know whether to be hurt or… well. Hurt. “So I can’t put flowers around the flat?” His brow creased and he looked like someone had kicked him in the guts.

   John stepped closer, “It’s just not, _you_. I mean, you leave human body parts lying around the kitchen and cigarettes and cold cups of tea. Not flowers. It isn’t… well it just doesn’t fit.” He smiled as if he’d managed to make things better.

   Sherlock just looked even unhappier, “So, I’m not allowed to be normal now? I’m not normal? I’m not allowed to change or change things because, God forbid, I should stop being the person you all think I am?”

   John’s face softened at his outburst and his heart squeezed in pain, “That’s not… Ugh, that is not what I meant,” He stepped closer to Sherlock, right to the edge of the table, giving Sherlock nowhere to go, “I just meant, I didn’t expect it. I knew you when you did leave tea everywhere and threw paper on the floor. It was just a shock. I haven’t been around. I mean… I suppose,” He took a deep breath and looked away from Sherlock’s eyes, “I didn’t expect you to have changed. I didn’t expect not to know you.”

   Sherlock didn’t know what to say. What he wanted to say was that he did it for John. What he wanted to say was that he could change back, he could throw paper around and leave tea everywhere and the ends of cigarettes if that made John happy. What he wanted to say was that John knew him better than anyone. What he wanted to say was that no matter what he was still the same person John knew. What he wanted to say was that he loved him.

   “Are those candles?” John staggered, his hand going out to point at the three candles on the table between the two plates Sherlock had set out.

   “I-I…”

   “You didn’t have to go to so much trouble.” John murmured softly, looking up to meet Sherlock’s frantic eyes.

   He relaxed instantly, the tension leaving his shoulders, “Well I move the lamp from the desk so it’s a little dark that’s why I put the candles out. It was so we could see our food. There’s enough light to see our food, obviously but I thought it would look nice as well and well they are a fire hazard but as long as nothing catches fire then Mrs Hudson can’t complain and –”

   “Oh, shut up.” John interrupted with a smirk.

   Everything got heavy then. The room shifted. Sherlock stared at John, his eyes falling to his lips and John licked at them impulsively. Sherlock restrained a groan.

   “Don’t… Don’t do that.”

   “Do what?”

   “Lick your…lips.”

   A tongue swiped over already wet lips.

   “John.”

   A warning.

   “Sherlock.”

   Sherlock stepped back, his back hitting the edge of the wall and the window. He looked at John with such intensity  and was about to give in. Give in to everything he wanted.

   John let out a tired sigh and dropped his head, stepping away, “God, I’m sorry."

   Sherlock fought the impulse to grab John. To grab him and meld their lips together and never part. He wanted to hold him and consume him. He wanted to forget that Mary existed. That John had married her. But he couldn’t. They couldn’t. John had Mary and it was something that couldn’t be undone.

   They sat down and ate in silence. No easy conversation like Sherlock had imagined. No casual jokes. Just silence as they picked at their respective dishes and tried not to make eye contact. It was painful and Sherlock wished he’d never gone to John’s house. He wished he had just left it alone. Just left John alone. _This_ wasn’t helping anyone, it was only satisfying a small part of him. The rest of him was left wanting. Left wanting someone he couldn’t have. He used to think it was just one sided. That John didn’t love him. That he was capable of loving but not being loved. But John did. Or felt something at least. So he’d cling to that. He’d grasp at the knowledge that it wasn’t just him that had feelings for the other.

   After they’d finished eating they took their plates and the containers into the immaculate kitchen and disposed of the in their respective places. John insisted on washing up but Sherlock just told him he’d do it in the morning. Then they stood there. Sherlock in front of the sink, hands awkwardly at his side and John, leaning against the small breakfast bar near the door to the stairs.

   “You should probably go…” Sherlock lifted his head as he spoke, his voice so quiet John only just managed to catch what he said.

   John’s stomach dropped, “Yeah… I should…”

   Neither of them moved.

   Sherlock thought John would turn around and collect his coat, then leave the flat with a quick goodbye. But instead John stayed still. Eyes still locked with Sherlock’s. So Sherlock took a chance. _He_ stepped forward. _He_ moved towards John. _He_ placed his hands gently on John’s face. _He_ inched his face close enough so their breathing mingled. Then _he_ pressed his lips delicately against John’s.

   John didn’t move. He let Sherlock kiss him, softly, his mind blank of anything. Just soft plump lips moving smoothly over his, that cupids bow of a top lip sucking at his. Sherlock hunched over to gain a better angle, his mouth pushing warmly against John’s.  He was asking him if he wanted this. He was asking if this was okay.

   “Sherlock…”

   “Hmm?”

   “Stop.”

   John felt the cool air against his moist lips as Sherlock moved away, his hands still holding his face gently. John didn’t meet Sherlock’s eyes; he just stared at the floor. He couldn’t do this. No matter how much he wanted this. He couldn’t. He was married for Christ’s sake. He’d be cheating on Mary. He wasn’t that sort of man. He couldn’t do that.

   It was like Sherlock read his mind because his hands dropped away as if he’d been stung and he stepped away.

   John met his gaze then and felt his entire body tense in pain and guilt at the broken expression on Sherlock’s face. Brow screwed lightly, bottom lip quivering, eyes imploring for this to not be happening to him. He was a broken man. John turned away, his intentions to leave clear.

   “I’m sorry, Sherlock.” He said over his shoulder, his voice breaking halfway.

   “So am I, John.”

   Then Sherlock watched as John left the flat, shoulders slumped, head down. He watched as John didn’t look back. He watched as John left again. He watched as John tore at his insides. Then he grasped onto the edge of the table and hung his head, his hands shaking, throat constricting, eyes burning.

   “So am I. But for entirely different reasons.” Sherlock whispered sorely to the empty flat. 

 _This time was probably goodbye for real_ , thought Sherlock. _And I never got to say it._

   “I love you.” He mumbled, letting everything he felt for John Hamish Watson consume him.

 

*   *   *   *

   John wandered the streets before he finally ended up outside the house that he called his home. The light in the living room was still on, meaning Mary had waited up for him. He scrubbed a hand down his face and sighed angrily.

He didn’t want Mary to wait up for him.

 

He wanted Sherlock.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you all enjoyed it! 
> 
> I don't know when I'll start part 3, probably next week sometime. It will have a happy ending guys!
> 
> Thank you for reading! :) x


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